End of the Street
by Werepuppy Black
Summary: There's a man who stands at the end of the street, everyone's noticed him.


There's a man who stands at the end of the street, everyone's noticed him. He's been there for a while now, and even if the police try to show him away, he's back within a few minutes, leaning against the edge of the building as though his life were dependent on it. There's a serious set to his face that makes more than few think that it may well be the case and they cross the street so that they don't have to be near him. He doesn't speak much, only when the rare person approaches him to ask him why he's waiting. He shows them a picture, and his voice is low and scratchy with disuse, but it's always the same thing he says: "tell her I'm here."

It doesn't make sense to anyone, and they begin to wonder if it even makes sense to himself anymore. Always those words: "tell her I'm here."

He becomes an attraction within time, people coming just to see him. This man who waits at the end of the street, leaning against the edge of the building no matter what the weather. He's strong, and handsome, and one than one person with attractive looks has tried to win him away from his spot, but it's like he's part of the building itself to the people who see him everyday. They know that he won't move, not until the words come from 'her' and she knows that he's there. It doesn't stop people from trying, and it's always the same reaction they get: he looks right through them, eyes scouring the streets for the girl he's waiting for. Occasionally he can be heard to mutter: "she has to know by now, she can't have forgotten."

The kinder people think he's grieving, that he can't come to terms with his loss and is sure that she'll just show up again if he waits. He says as much to the few who become many therapists who try to get him to open up: "she's not dead, she'll be here soon, she won't forget." Whoever she is, many have come to wonder if she even knows who he is at all? There's many who think he's insane, that he's waiting on someone who doesn't even exist and that they'd be better off locking him away for all of their safety. But he's polite, on the rare occasion he speaks at all, and he causes no harm to anyone. He just waits at the end of the street, leaning against the edge of the building, quietly looking out for someone that no one can be certain is around to know he's there.

The man takes to sitting and leaning against the building, within time, arms folded on top of his knees for his head to rest on as he continues to look out at the people who pass him by. He's still strong looking, still got power in him, but there's a growing sadness in his face, and he speaks less and less, even to those who had the rare pleasure of speaking to him at all. The television crews have arrived by this point, from all over the world. They all set up around the street, taking up all the space the man had been so careful to make sure was left free for everyone else. He doesn't speak to them, doesn't even look their way. His eyes are roaming out as they always are, glancing over each new face, a fierce hope dimming each day. He doesn't leave, and people are beginning to think he can't anymore. That he's been there too long that to leave would break him. He still looks though, every time someone passes, the picture growing crinkled between his fingers.

Each television report has a different tone, a different voice, a different language, and is watched by millions of pairs of different eyes. They speak of a feat of endurance, a feat of strength, a feat of insanity, and all ask their viewers what would drive the man to this point. What grief would possess a person to wait, every day, sitting at the end of the street, leaning against the edge of the building, looking for someone to know he's here, and that someone might not even exist? It goes out to thousands, millions, the world speaks of him, but he says little, only: "tell her I'm here."

The man sits at the end of the street, leaning against the edge of the building, his head buried in his arms now, trying to block out everything that was going on around him. He hasn't spoken in a while now, and the cameras make him quieter still. He doesn't look anymore, but still sits and waits like his life were dependent on it. At this point, several doctors are arguing heavily otherwise, demanding his removal for his own sake, if no one else's. He won't leave, won't go with them, and there's strength enough left to be able to fight them off if they try to take him. The cameras still are fixed on him, the world is still fixed on him, everyone wants to see what will happen.

One day a voice yells, no, screams above the noise that has been ever growing since the cameras appeared. A girl stomps forward, fury in each step and ice in her eyes. "You pig-headed, stubborn bastard!" She screams. The man looks up, his eyes heavy and trying to focus. "You complete and utter... argh!" As she reaches him, she drops to his level, hitting him as fiercely as she can anywhere she can reach. People start forward, looking to stop what is clearly assault, she kicks them away and continues on her tirade. "You stupid bull!"

The man falls forward, and his arms wrap around the girl, as she continues to hit him, muttering stupid bull over and over as they cling to each other./p

"Told you I'd be here, m'lady."

"Stupid bull."


End file.
